Authors: Kathleen O'Neal Gear
The Betrayal (20 page)
Sand blew across the dusk-shadowed trail in glittering veils. They'd alternately ridden and walked all day and were bone-weary, but their horses were in much worse condition. When the lathered animals had started to stumble at sunset, they'd gotten off and started leading them. As she walked, Kalay stroked her horse's flank, speaking gently to the animal to keep it going, but the trick would not work forever.
She smiled at herself. She was more weary than she'd ever been in her life. The long, exhausting days of washing and drying at the monastery now seemed laughable. At least there, when she'd fallen into bed at night, she'd gone right to sleep, and slept straight through with few worries.
Far in the distance, a thread of deep blue painted the horizon, marking the location of the ocean. Already a salty scent pervaded the air.
“Cyrus,” she said, “we should find water and camp for the night.”
“Yes. Soon.”
The trail dove off the edge of a dune. As Cyrus cautiously led the horse down, she walked out front.
Brother Barnabas tugged on his horse's lead rope, pulling the animal closer to Cyrus. His gray hair, soiled with dust and sweat, appeared darker, which gave his deeply sunken eyes a haunted look. She feared that if they did not find a place to rest for a few days, and soon, he would be ill, or worse.
“My old friend, Libni, lives just south of Agrippias,” Barnabas said to Cyrus.
“How far south?”
Barnabas pointed a gnarled finger. “There. Somewhere.”
Cyrus shifted to study the broken distance, a terrain of dark jutting rock, stony flats, and occasional dunes. Twisted lines of wadis, drainages, carved their way toward the west. “You don't know exactly where he lives?”
“No, but I have a good general idea. Once or twice a year, he sends me letters through traders.”
“Have you ever written him back?” Zarathan called from where he walked in the rear.
“Three times in the past twenty years traders have been able to deliver letters for me.”
Zarathan scratched at the blond fuzz that he called a beard. “You've only written him three times in twenty years?”
“No. I write him every month, but Libni is very hard to find.”
“Then what makes you think we can do it?”
“Libni described the area for me,” Barnabas said. “When we reach the branch in the road just west of Gaza, I'll lead.”
Cyrus nodded.
The horses panted and licked at their lips, as though desperately thirsty.
“Brother Barnabas,” she said, “you clearly know these roads. How long before we reach water?”
“Not long. Around the first hour of night, we'll pass by a pool outside of Gaza. We can let our horses drink there, and drink our fill ourselves.”
Eagerly Zarathan asked, “Will we camp there? I'm starving.”
Barnabas turned to Cyrus, the question in his eyes.
Cyrus said, “I don't know. I'll have to scout it first. If it's too close to the town, I think we should move on.”
“It is close to town, or at least it was when I last passed through Gaza over twenty years ago.”
The dune flattened out, and Barnabas fell into line behind them again. Kalay could hear him talking softly to Zarathan.
She gently stroked her horse's flank, apologizing for the fact that he would have to walk for another hour without a drink. At the feel of her hand, the bay swiveled his head to look at her.
“It's all right,” she soothed. “It won't be long now.”
The horse shook his head, and she wondered if it wasn't his way of remarking,
That's what you said an hour ago.
That's what you said an hour ago.
Cyrus patted the horse's neck. “Kalay, I have a question for you. It's about the papyrus. Did you notice that the word
Selah
breaks the pattern?”
Selah
breaks the pattern?”
“I did. All of the other names, with the exception of the name for God, begin with the letter
m
.”
m
.”
“I don't think that's a coincidence. Do you?” He swiveled to look at her as best he could.
“No. I suspect every letter means something.”
“Do you have any idea why that word breaks the pattern?”
“Well, for one thing, it's the seventh word.”
“The seventh word? Why is that important?”
She frowned at the back of his head. “Have you ever studied the Hebrew prophecies?”
“Some. Why?”
“The number seven is a sort of divine cipher. For example, along with the break, I also noticed that if you total all the letters through Selah, there are forty-three, which, when added together, four plus three, equal seven.”
“So? What does it mean?”
“Will you just listen for a moment? There are another twenty-eight letters after Selah, which equals ten. Two plus eight.”
Cyrus didn't say anything, but she could see he was thinking about it. “Are the numbers seven and ten important?”
“Well, yes,” Kalay answered, a little taken aback. “Because seven times ten is seventy.”
She gave him time to consider the implications while she watched a whirlwind spin across the road ahead of them. It was small, without much strength, and faded to a gust of sand a short time later.
“Seventy,” he repeated as though he had no idea what she was talking about.
Kalay sighed. “Think of the Book of Daniel.”
Cyrus paused. “Ah. You mean the Seventy Weeks prophecy about the appointed End of Time?”
“Yes. Daniel prophesied that there would follow seventy weeks of years after the destruction of Jerusalem by the Babylonians before the messiah
came. Jerusalem was destroyed in the Jewish year 3284. One Sabbatical year equaled one âweek,' or seven ordinary years. The total period then, seventy times seven, was four hundred and ninety years. The final Sabbatical year, that is the
last seven years of the world,
began around the year, on your calendar, of twenty-six or twenty-seven. Your Lord and his followers believed the world was going to end in the year thirty-three or thirty-four.”
76
came. Jerusalem was destroyed in the Jewish year 3284. One Sabbatical year equaled one âweek,' or seven ordinary years. The total period then, seventy times seven, was four hundred and ninety years. The final Sabbatical year, that is the
last seven years of the world,
began around the year, on your calendar, of twenty-six or twenty-seven. Your Lord and his followers believed the world was going to end in the year thirty-three or thirty-four.”
76
Cyrus pulled the horse to a sudden stop. “I didn't know that.”
“You would if you were Jewish. As your Lord was.”
That seemed to stun him.
Barnabas pulled his horse forward, glanced between them, and his elderly face tensed. “What's wrong?”
“Kalay and I were talking about the papyrus. The seventh word, Selah, breaks the pattern, and if you total all the letters through Selah it equals forty-three. Whichâ”
“When added together,” Barnabas interrupted, “totals seven. What else?”
“Kalay also noticed that there are twenty-eight letters after Selah, whichâ”
“Equals ten, and ten times seven is seventy.”
Cyrus' mouth hung ajar. “You knew?”
“That the papyrus might refer to the Seventy Weeks prophecy in Daniel, yes. But keep in mind that Selah could also be a simple musical stop. There are many
selahs
in the Psalms, for example, and that is what they are. When poems were sung, there had to be musical stops.”
selahs
in the Psalms, for example, and that is what they are. When poems were sung, there had to be musical stops.”
Cyrus' gaze fixed on the horizon, as though it was a centering point for his thoughts. “But, it could also mean the papyrus is about the End of the World.”
“Or the appearance of the messiah, who is supposed to herald the End,” Barnabas said.
Zarathan peered around Barnabas' shoulder. It amazed Kalay that his blue eyes retained their perpetual look of surprise. You'd think, after what they'd been through, he'd have gotten over that.
In a grave voice, Zarathan said, “The papyrus map leads to the End of the World? I'm not sure I like that.”
Cyrus said, “I thought you longed for the coming of the Kingdom?”
“Well, yes, of course, I do. It's just that the End of the World sounds so final.”
Barnabas wiped his sweating forehead on his dirty sleeve. “Don't worry, Zarathan. We don't even know that it is a map.”
Cyrus whispered, “The year 27. Isn't that the year our Lord began his ministry?”
Barnabas nodded. “Probably, although it might have been the year 28, or even 29, depending upon which gospel you believe.”
77
77
The last gleam of dusk faded, and as twilight settled over the desert, the shadows of the dunes took on a faintly purple hue.
Cyrus said, “It's no wonder our Lord says his own generation would live to see the Apocalypse, and Petros wrote that the end of all things was at hand. They truly believed that they had accurately calculated the Seventy Weeks prophecy.”
“And I'm sure they did,” Kalay noted, perhaps a little too gleefully. “Unfortunately, the prophecy was bunk, and you monkish fools have wasted three centuries waiting for the End, instead of living fruitful lives the way God intended.”
The tone in her voice must have frightened the horses. They both stamped and shook their heads, jingling their reins, which sounded loud in the desert quiet.
Barnabas patted his horse's neck. He whispered something Kalay couldn't hear, but the animal calmed down.
As night descended, the wind became a soft purl, and she could smell the ocean again.
Zarathan glared at Kalay. “You are so hateful! At every opportunity you demean our religion. Why is that?”
Kalay's brows arched. “Because it's a well-known fact that he whom the gods wish to destroy they first make Believers.”
“What?” Zarathan glanced at his brothers, hoping they would explain the comment.
Instead, Barnabas said, “We're all tired. Let's get to Gaza.”
It took another half hour before they reached the pool that Barnabas had recalled. It turned out to be inside the city walls. As they rode their horses through the gate, they smelled the sweet fragrances of boiled goat and fresh bread. The spring had been rocked in, creating a tank of crystal-clear water.
They dismounted and let their horses drink while they dipped up water
with their cupped hands. Drinking his fill, Barnabas sighed and patted his book bag, as if the gazelle leather were the cherished hide of an old friend.
with their cupped hands. Drinking his fill, Barnabas sighed and patted his book bag, as if the gazelle leather were the cherished hide of an old friend.
The sounds of the city carried: dogs barking, supper dishes clacking and rattling. Somewhere a man let out a big, throaty laugh and, when a baby cried, a woman scolded him.
Kalay sat on the lip of the tank and let her gaze drift over the softly lit flat-topped houses. At some point, probably soon, she imagined they would close the city gates, but for now, people seemed occupied with feeding their families.
“They were thirsty,” Barnabas noted as he watched the horses drinking. “But we shouldn't stay long. It's too risky.”
“We'll find food first, though, won't we?” Zarathan's voice was a whine. He looked from man to man.
Kalay studied them. Their faces had changed dramatically since that deadly night in the monastery. All of the serenity and faith that had softened their features were gone. Barnabas' wrinkles had frozen into determined lines, as though he'd been given a sacred mission and would not fail to accomplish it. Zarathan's eyes darted about like a scared cat's. If he'd had a tail it would be switching as he ran for cover. And Cyrus ⦠Cyrus was simply the man in charge. Their safety depended upon him and he knew it, and would do whatever was necessary to keep them from harm. They had, she supposed, returned to their former selves, before their lives in the monastery.
“Brothers?” Zarathan pressed. “We
are
going to eat here, aren't we?”
are
going to eat here, aren't we?”
“There's no time,” Cyrus said. “Just get your fill of water so that we can leave.”
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